


Such Patient Beauty

by Polly_Phemus (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Hook, BDSM, Blindfolds, Butt Plugs, Daddy Kink, Exhibitionism, Exploitation, Kneeling, M/M, Objectification, Pre-Series, Restraints, Semi-public masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 12:58:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11336013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Polly_Phemus
Summary: John's been teaching Dean to be patient and obey orders his whole life.  Why not make money off it?Tagged as John/Dean but their relationship is, despite what they're doing in this story, basically non-sexual.  In a fine-line kind of way.





	Such Patient Beauty

"Found a new way to pick up some cash," John tells Dean, when it's just the two of them. Sammy's getting bigger by the day, but he's still only thirteen. Dean's now old enough to vote, which he's pretty sure he wouldn't bother to do even if he had a fixed address. He knows who the president is, 'cause that's a question that anyone who gets knocked on the head as often he does gets asked a lot. He spent the first six months of his fourteenth year giving the wrong answer because it's not like they have a subscription to _Newsweek_ and the obituaries are the only part of the newspaper he ever reads.

And _Garfield_. Garfield has a pretty sweet life.

"What we have to do?" Dean asks.

"I've gotta set you up," John says, and Dean figures, oh, a short con; he and Dad have been running those for years now, although Dean still looks young enough that bars can be a hassle even with all the fake ID.

"I'll set you up, then you just have to be patient and put up with a little discomfort," John says. Anyone who wasn't Dean Winchester, who's spent his whole life studying everything about his father, might've heard and seen only reassurance in his voice and posture, but Dean caught the underlying tension. It went past money worries, he knew, although the kitty was dangerously low. It was something else, something about thisnew scheme he'd cooked up. 

"How much discomfort?" Dean wanted to know.

"Remember that time you got knifed and dislocated your shoulder and I had to doctor 'em both roadside?"

"Yeah."

"Nowhere near that."

Okay, Dean figured he could work with that.

John drives them through a pretty neighborhood; the trees are starting to leaf out and tulips are starting to show their colors. It's quiet and nice and hard to believe that they're only a half-mile from I-95. Surprisingly, a small storage facility shows up among the houses, then a small gym, then a turnoff for a small cluster of buildings for light industry. It's still light out; sunset will be in twenty minutes at 7:34 precisely, and on a Saturday evening the parking lot should be empty.

But it isn't. There's a small cluster of cars outside one business; it's got a small sign reading "New England Fastening Organization." It doesn't look big enough to distribute fasteners to the entire region, Dean thinks; maybe it's some sort of industrial branch office.

John parks the car carefully and shuts off the ignition. He turns to Dean. 

"Okay, so this is going to be a little odd for you," he tells Dean. "I think," he mutters under his breath in the tone he usually reserves for sarcastic asides about Dean and girls. He hands Dean a small bag, a midnight blue velvet drawstring pouch, no sigils burned in the soft cloth. 

"You understand what you're looking at?"

Dean looks through the bag. There's a pair of underwear in it...barely. T-back thong, front barely big enough to contain his dick, dark green. Hunter green, Dean thinks with dark amusement A stainless steel buttplug. A cock ring. A bottle of Astroglide. A small tube of Vaseline. 

Dean suddenly gets that the New England Fastening Organization has nothing to do with industrial products. He holds up the Astroglide and the Vaseline.

"Redundant much?"

"You don't want to put Astroglide on your lips, son," John says patiently and he sounds exactly the same as he did when he taught Dean how to make s'mores. Dean shivers slightly in the warm April night as he slips everything back in the bag. 

"Yeah, I understand what I've got here," Dean says and, in a really immediate sense, it's true. He knows what each of these things are but he's not sure exactly what it's all adding up to.

"Good," John says heartily, like they've just finished inventory before hitting a graveyard. "Here's what's going to happen. We go in there," John nods over to the door where a middle aged couple are walking in, "we sign in with these," John pulls out a couple of IDs, "you get some water, but not too much, then slip into the bathroom and get fixed up."

Dean holds up the bag. "With this stuff?"

"Yeah," John says. "You stow your clothes in my pack, circulate a bit so every one can get a good look at you and when I pull you aside, you do exactly what I tell you."

"Got it," Dean says, and it's just like they're on a hunt. Only Dean won't be wearing any clothes to speak of.

John gets out of the car and Dean follows. As they approach the door, Dean goes into his automatic pre-hunt mental rituals to get his head in the right place, calm and focused on the job at hand, everything else pushed aside.

"And one more thing, Dean," John says to him, voice low, just as they get to the door. "In here, I'm 'Daddy' and you're 'Boy'."

 _Of course,_ Dean thinks. _Who else could we possibly be in a place like this?_

The...gatekeeper? Bouncer? Whatever. A nice-looking woman in her sixties, wearing an open leather vest with nothing under it, greets them.

"Master Cole sent for me," John tells the woman. 

"Of course, Mister Smithson," the woman says pleasantly. "I'll just need some ID...cover up everything but the picture and the date of birth if you prefer."

John holds up his ID and Dean does the same. His ID is not under the name Smithson and he gets it. In here, at the New England Fastening Organization, John may be his Daddy but he's definitely not John's son.

They get waved through a heavy black curtain and into a small anteroom with cubicles. John puts his pack in one of them, making sure Dean sees where it is. Dean nods to show his understanding. 

They move further into the...Dean guesses it's a club. Or is it a dungeon? Maybe dungeons are where people play tabletop games that are some kind of "fun" version of his everyday life? Dean cuts off his train of thought. He's allowing his mind to wander and they have a job to do.

He goes over to a water cooler, the kind they have in offices, with the giant Poland Spring carboy upended up top. He grabs a paper cup from the side dispenser, fills it, drinks it all in one go. He automatically takes stock of his surroundings: large room, a spider's web arrangement of chain stretched between ceiling and floor in one corner, complete with a man in blue jeans and nothing else, using a bullwhip to take careful aim at a pillow suspended dead center of the web. Benches of varying heights. A medical examination table, complete with stirrups. A massage table next to a shelf of different colored waxes melting over burners. 

The first bathroom he finds is a single, only for one person at a time according to emphatic signs both inside and out. Toilet, urinal, sink and a floor length mirror. Dean gets to work, taking all his clothes off and folding them neatly, then voiding himself of everything he can. He cleans his ass carefully, lubing himself and the plug before slipping it in. 

He takes the cock ring without really looking at it, lubes the inside and slides it down over his dick. He's glad John didn't give him one for the whole works. The fit is reasonable, not too tight but, once he gets hard, should make everything look good. Thank god _Batman Returns_ had been on TV the night before. The thought of Michelle Pfeiffer in black leather gets the job done. Dean slips on the thong, letting the head of his dick peek out over the top. If it's too much for this space, someone will tell him.

Dean slaps some Vaseline on his lips, using the mirror to make sure they're nice and shiny. He even dabs some on his eyelashes; why not really do it up right? If John had warned him, he'd've gotten some charcoal from the trunk for eyeliner.

He leaves the bathroom, stows his clothes and slowly makes his way around the room, looking for John. He finds him a side room off a kitchen, where there's a huge array of food laid out. Cheese trays, salad trays, buckets of chicken.... Dean hopes he'll get a chance at the buffet at some point. No one says anything about the fit of his thong, although plenty of people look.

John's sitting on the end of a sofa, chatting about fishing with a woman in jeans and an Aerosmith concert T. Dean would kind of like to talk to her, too, because...hey, Aerosmith. But he knows that's not what he's there for.

Without looking at Dean, or interrupting his conversation, John points to the floor at his feet. Dean folds himself gracefully to kneel at John's feet. He waits, glancing around at the people in the room. Some are wearing various kinds of fetish gear, but most of them wouldn't look out of place in any bar in any town on any Saturday night.

Before long, the woman who'd admitted them approaches John. "Whenever you're ready," she says. John nods and stands up. "Come on, boy," he tells Dean. Dean gets up and walks slightly behind John. Again, he thinks of dozens of hunts. He squares his shoulders and tries to remind himself that, unlike a normal hunt, he's on display here.

They go back into the main room, to a large wooden frame. It's basic; it looks almost like a tent frame. 

"Wait here," John tells Dean, and proceeds to look over the frame, shaking it, examining every L-bracket join.

"It's rated to a thousand pounds and you'll be the only one using it," the woman assures John. John gives her the same grunt he gives Dean when he approves of the way Dean's cleaned the firearms.

"The demonstration is about to begin," the woman announces. "Tonight's theme is Patient Beauty." People start gathering; Blue Jeans puts down his bullwhip.

John pulls two chains with padded leather cuffs at their ends down from the top crossbar of the frame, tugging them hard and nodding. 

"Over here, boy," he calls to Dean. Dean walks over, showing neither hesitation nor haste, letting John position him so he's facing the largest part of the room. John quickly cuffs each of Dean's wrists, then pulls the chains taut, thrusting Dean's chest forward. Dean can't exactly relax in this pose, but it's not uncomfortable, either. He'd have to be in these cuffs, these chains, overnight before he'd have any trouble with them.

"Snap your fingers, boy," John commands him, and Dean obeys.

"Good boy," John says, but too distantly for it to be real praise. "That's your out...snap your fingers and this ends." Dean understands that the last thing he should do is snap his fingers. Nobody pays money to watch someone snap his fingers so his Daddy can set him free because he couldn't take it.

John pulls down another chain from the crossbar, halfway between the chains now holding Dean's arms in place. He shows Dean a hook.

"Gonna attach this to the chain, then it goes in you, boy," John tells him. And this...Dean supposes he should've guessed, but he'd honestly thought he'd be on relatively simple display, even when the cuffs went on. Not this. He wants to protest, but that's not what John wants and John knows what he's doing and Dean just has to trust that.

John pushes the thong out of the way, the fabric stretching over Dean's dick with the movement. He eases the plug out of Dean's ass and Dean takes a deep breath as John slips the hook into him. It goes deep, deeper than the plug. Dean exhales. John grasps a length of the chain attached to the plug, pulls it up. 

"Tension okay?" John asks Dean quietly, lips barely moving.

"Ask me again louder," Dean suggests, speaking just as quietly, as much out of the corner of his mouth as he can. John gives him a slight nod and an even slighter smile, knowing that they're both on the same page.

"How's that tension, boy?" John asks, this time for the benefit of the room.

"Little tighter, please, Daddy?" Dean responds, giving his voice all the youth and vulnerability he usually tries so hard not too show.

John chuckles filthily at that and Dean just knows he winked to the room. He feels John ratchet up the chain until Dean's heels are a fraction of an inch off the floor, the balls of his feet and the hook in his ass holding him in place.

John shows Dean a short length of cloth the same dark green as his thong. "Gonna blindfold you, boy," John says on a growl. Dean's grateful; it'll be easier for him to concentrate on patiently waiting the demonstration out if he's not distracted by the people coming and going, some watching avidly, some just taking a quick glance at the living art.

Once blindfolded, Dean waits. He knows John isn't far off; there'd been a chair close to the frame with a VIP card on it, presumably for the guest of honor. Dean can't physically relax in this position, but he can let go mentally. John's on watch and Dean's part of this job is simply to...be there. He can feel anything he wants.

He concentrates on what he's feeling. Night hunts are almost always cold, except when they're sweltering and humid. The air in this room is conditioned, not humid, and just a couple of degrees north of normal in deference to the many scantily clad inhabitants. He feels the occasional breeze as someone walks past, but that's it.

He smells the chicken from the kitchen and someone's making cacciatore sauce. He hears conversation and some laughter; he hopes it's not directed at him. He feels the strain in his calves, his arms, a pleasant burning but no more than that.

But more than anything else, he feels the hook in his ass. It fills him like nothing else has in his young life, makes him feel things he didn't know he could feel. He desperately wants to rock on it, to explore these new sensations, but he knows he's supposed to be still. Patient. A work of art.

John's work of art.

It's a kind of eternity that passes, an eternity in which Dean goes from being as big as the universe to being as small as an atom. An eternity of being hooked and displayed with nowhere to hide; an eternity of seeing nothing and therefore not needing to hide. It's forever and, when he hears John's low voice whispering near his ear that he's going to touch him now, no need to startle, it's not nearly long enough.

John pulls the hook free, not too fast, holding Dean at the waist as Dean's feet come to rest fully on the polished concrete floor. 

"Can you stand on your own?" John asks him quietly and Dean nods. John quickly frees his wrists from the cuffs, then moves to support Dean as he moves him to the VIP chair, loudly calling him a good boy the whole time, so the audience can see that this Daddy knows what a treasure he has in his boy. 

Dean feels himself being seated and a bottle of water being pressed against his lips. He gulps greedily, not caring that as much water is spilling in his bare skin as is going in his mouth.

"Such a good boy," John says and Dean drinks that in, too.

"Thank you, Daddy," he says when the bottle, now empty, is pulled away.

"Gonna give you back your eyes, boy," John warns him. Dean nods slightly. Once the blindfold is off, Dean keeps his eyelids half-closed, letting himself adjust gradually to the light.

"Did good, boy," John says and Dean's pretty sure he means that.

"Thank you, Daddy," Dean says.

"When you think you can stand, why don't you go in the men's room, take care of yourself," John suggests. 

"Okay, Daddy," Dean says. Except...if they were going to make serious bank off the show they just put on, why not really go for broke?

"Daddy?" Dean asks.

"Yeah, boy?"

"Do you think...maybe the people who saw me might like to see me finish?" Dean suggests, keeping his voice young, so very young.

There are murmurs of assent from the room. Dean doesn't dare look at John, just waits endlessly for his answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the woman in the leather vest nod her head toward yet another side room, one with a glass door.

"Janet says it's okay with her if you're sure it's okay with you, D-- boy," John corrects himself. Dean notices the slip and knows he's taken this further than John ever expected him to. Wonders if John thought he'd even get Dean through the front door. Dean stamps out a sudden flare of triumph that threatens to break free from the place he keeps his most forbidden emotions.

Instead, he gets to his feet carefully.

"Why don't you wait here, Daddy?" he says to John. John nods weakly and sinks into the chair, picking up a fresh water bottle like he wishes it had a very high proof number. Dean follows Janet into the side room, at least twenty people trailing after them.

Dean takes his place at the front of the room. Someone's left the door open and a part of him is glad.

"You all saw what my Daddy thinks of me," he tells the crowd. "He thinks I'm a work of art. That I deserve to be seen, that you deserve to see me. But, really, I'm a work of art that he created and perfected. So I know he wants you to see this, too."

Dean puts his hands on either side of his necks, skims them down his chest, stopping to tweak his nipples. He's pretty close, so he doesn't linger, just moves his hands down his body until he's touching his dick. He takes his hand off just long enough to scoop some extra lube from his ass,then uses his thumb and forefinger to create a loose circle to fuck into; normally, he'd use his whole hand, but this ain't normal and that would block the view.

He fucks his hand, using the other to manipulate the ring, loosening it enough to make it easier for him to come. He thinks about the faintly pleasant ache in his ass and how the hook had felt, filling him, keeping him in place so that everyone could see how good he was, how perfect for them he'd been, and how perfect he's being now, out where everyone can see him and enjoy him and know exactly what he's good at.

It doesn't take long for him to finish. It doesn't take long at all.

Afterward, he gets his chicken and even a biscuit. And when they leave, there's an envelope full of cash for John and two for Dean. "A bonus," Janet tells him. "For the solo act."

Dean had pretty much forgotten it was an act by then.

**Author's Note:**

> As I work my way through the series, the next up on my Netflix cue is "Hook Man." Hence this unrelated story. I go where the muse takes me.


End file.
